Of Dovah and Love
by greeneman42
Summary: A young Khajiit come to Skyrim to complete a very important task, but is mistakenly caught up in a brutal civil war. Alone, afraid and devoid of any knowledge of her own life, she must make her way in the harsh realities of the province of Skyrim.
1. Chapter 1

The dull scrape of an axe blade being sharpened on a grindstone fills the crisp Skyrim air, the grizzled man hunched over the spinning stone brushes a thick lock of long blond hair back over his ear. Intent on his task and insulated by the leather padding and the layers of blue cloth over his chain link armour, he hardly notices the biting cold. Ralof had been born in Skyrim, a true Nord, the cold and harsh environment of the Empire's most northern province was in his blood. "We won't be of the Empire for much longer" he mumbles under his breath raising the plain iron bladed axe into the light.

Across the small camp, populated by several other men and women in identical blue cloth and chain-link armour, but wearing concealing helmets that left nothing but the eyes uncovered. Ralof spotted a man in the command tent. He was dressed in dark furs and leaning over a table dominated by a large map of the Province. Next to him was a large man in an officer's uniform, thick steel plates covering his chest and shoulders leaving his arms bare , with the large forearms of a Cave bear slung over each shoulder. A pair of heavy gauntlets lay on the table, thick metal "claws" extended from the knuckles. Small red and blue flags dotted the thick parchment on the table; the eastern half of the map carried almost two dozen blue flags, tallest of them Windhelm, the Ancient Capital of the Kingdom of Skyrim, with the western half speckled with red. A large blank spot in the center of the map marked the Whiterun hold. Jarl Balgruuf had yet to decide where his allegiances lie.

"How fares your campaign Gonnar?" the deep voice of the darker dress man filled the tent easily.

Gonnar Oath-Giver grunted, "The Imperials have proven stubborn. They do not know when they are beaten, when they should run away, my lord." His rough voice boomed across the camp, layered with a thick Nord accent.

"And Greenwall?"

"The fort is defensible, it would take a miracle for these pathetic weaklings to oust true Sons of Skyrim from such a place."

Gonnar's fist made a muted clang as it struck the steel plate under the fur wrapped around his chest. "We will not lose the Rift, my lord, and we will see you Crowned High Kind of Skyrim after we toss out these Imperial dogs licking their wounds."

Their conversation continued, but Ralof paid no mind, he trusted Gonnar, and more importantly, he trusted Jarl Ulfric; Skyrim belonged to the Nords, an empire that can't protect its people without giving away their own gods. The war with the High Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion was long and bloody, and had ended with what they called 'The White-Gold Concordant', a treaty which stopped the conflict, but resigned the Empire to suffer at the hands of the Thalmor, a part of the Dominion that was tasked to put an end to the worship of the God Talos. A land is not free if you can be killed for uttering, "By the Nine" instead of "by the Eight".

Ralof is pulled from his reverie by the sight of a Khajiit female wandering into the camp, wearing leather armour bearing scuffs and obvious wear from long travel. Ralof stands from the grind stone and walks over to her, carrying the axe with him.

"This area is restricted to civilians, you'd better clear off cat!" he said, holding the warily axe in front of him. The Empire used spies and coward's tactics as much as good, straight-forward fighting.

The Khajiit raised her empty hands revealing a jagged dagger of Orcish make, the dark green metal gleamed dully on her waist.

"I mean no harm Nord." The Khajiit's rasping voice reminded Ralof of the grindstone. "It would appear I am lost, could you tell me how to get to Riften?"

The newcomer had attracted attention. Ulfric and Gonnar were still intent on the map, but the concealed faces of the rest of the camps' inhabitants turned towards the stranger. Several stood and fingered large two-handed swords and battle axes. The stranger shifted slightly, not from discomfort of the attention, Ralof thought. This woman did not look frightened or uncomfortable. Closer to a Saber Cat getting ready to pounce on a much larger predator.

Ralof slipped the wooden handle of the axe handle into a metal loop on his belt, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Riften?" he asked with a small chuckle, chain-link armour jingling as his shoulders hitched slightly. "You're a ways off from Riften yet. Head west to the road and follow it to the south. Just watch for the signposts and you'll be fine."

The Khajiit opened her mouth to say something, but if she did, he didn't hear it. Just behind him Ralof heard a dull crunch followed by wet gasping wheezes. Turning to see what it was, he had just enough time to throw himself to the side as an Imperial sword sliced through where his head had been moments before. The ground was littered with his fallen comrades, each with arrows protruding from their still forms; the sound had been a Stormcloak soldier fall with an arrow through her throat.

Ralof came up from the roll drawing his axe. The camp had been decimated. Gonnar was gone, not dead most likely. _The man is damn near invincible_ Ralof thought baring his teeth. Surrounded by a ring of Imperials, Ralof fought with all his skill, bobbing and weaving around inexpert sword slashes. His axe bit deep into the thigh of a soldier as he sidestepped an over enthusiastic lunge. Off to his side he saw that the stranger Khajiit was in a similar position, holding off a half dozen soldiers using her dagger and natural claws; had it been another time he would have been amazed. The grace with which she flowed between the blows of her enemies was entrancing. As though in a dance, she spun around a clumsy opponent, snarling as she drew her blade across his throat and gripping another's in her empty hand. Her claws ripped through the exposed skin easily, dark blood flowed over her wrist matting her dark grey fur.

Ralof turned his attentions back to his own fight; the Cat was on her own. The three soldiers left were no mere recruits; scarred faces and calloused hands marked veterans of the Legion. No easy opponents by themselves, these three would prove too much.

"For Sovengard!" Ralof shouted, raising his axe and charging at the middle of the three men, heedless of the foolish nature of his attack. The left-most man's counter ripped the weapon from his hand, and the pommel of his sword descended to his head. Searing pain pulled him into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

The Khajiit woman groaned as she raised her bound hands to her head, a dull throbbing ache intruded on her thoughts; she pitched forward unexpectedly as the cart she was on rocked over a bump in the road. Her vision slowly cleared as she looked around, she was...somewhere cold, she couldn't remember...why were her hands bound? Vague memories of an unfamiliar woman swam in her head, she was going somewhere, it seemed important, but whenever she tried to recall what it was she only saw darkness.  
The man opposite her spoke, but the words washed over her, barely understood. She looked blankly at him as he spoke, seeing his battered armour, blonde hair dirty and tucked behind his ear; a second man started talking, but the woman still couldn't focus on the words enough to make anything out, just vague sounds and impressions. She frowned, and her ears flicked in annoyance at her inability to understand the words.  
The Khajiit closed her eyes breathed, an image of a flame sprang into her mind unbidden, a smooth flame that waxed and waned as she breathed. All her emotions fell into it, her mind became blank as all her thoughts and emotions burned away in the flame, leaving her mind empty, floating in an endless dark void. Furrowing her brow, she tried again.  
"Watch your tongue horse-thief! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" the blue garbed soldier spat at the second man to speak, gesturing to the fourth and final man in their cart. Ulfric slowly pulled his gaze from the countryside, revealing a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth as a gag. The large man did not look a prisoner, for all the trapping of one he had. Cold eyes regarded the horse-thief silently for a moment, before sliding back over to the passing forest.  
The horse-thief recoiled in shock "Ulfric?" he asked timidly "The Jarl of Windhelm?" You're the leader of the rebellion. If they've captured you...oh gods! Where are they taking us?!" the horse-thief wailed, he wrenched at his binds in a vain attempt to free his hands.  
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovengarde awaits." the soldier says solemnly peering forward past the cart driver. Following his gaze, the Khajiit saw a town roll into view. The conversation between the soldier and the man who had apparently stolen a horse continued, with increasing urgency on the part of the horse-thief, the soldier remained stoic throughout.  
They passed through a gate into the town, sturdy wood buildings flanking a cobble stone road. Dark, rough cut stone dressed the stronghold, three towers stood, the dilapidated ruins of a fourth connecting them, like an injured limb on a mighty beast.  
A distant voice spoke to one of the soldiers leading the convoy as they left the gate behind; however the words eluded the Khajiit woman again. The cart continued to roll into the town; children laughed and darted around the horses and the waggons, following the strange procession. As the prisoners passed between two of the towers into a small courtyard parental voices quickly rang out, and the children darted back away from the soldiers still laughing, their attention flitting away like a leaf in high winds.  
As the carts rounded the tower, the Khajiit's breath caught, in the centre stood three people, a man covered in black leather, with broad steel links sewn in, his face obscured by a thick leather mask that left his lower jaw bare. Beside him stood a priest, orange rippling in a slight breeze. The last was a older man in gilded armour, hair solid grey with age, but with a bearing and stance that suggested power, with both body and mind.  
Most importantly however, was the long hafted axe in the hand of the first man, and the small object at his feet; the headsman awaited his charges grimly, handle of his weapon planted on the dark stone of the yard. _So this is to be my fate _she thought sadly, _executed for a crime I do not even remember committing_ then with a dark humoured smile she added _I wonder if I have any regrets?_  
As the cart ground to a halt the imperial driver levered himself up off of the cart, motioning the prisoners to follow him. Ulfric stood, shoulders relaxed and head high, looking nothing like the captive he was. Calmly stemming down onto the cobbles, he strode over to the comparatively small guard as if strolling down the halls of his own palace; the horse-thief jumped down to the ground clumsily, stumbling forward into Ulfric, who appeared not to notice. Standing at the edge of the cart, the Khajiit gracefully dropped onto the uneven paving stones and quietly made her way to the other prisoners, followed closely by the blue clothed soldier. In the dark recesses of her mind the Khajiit woman realized that she should be more afraid of dying, but how could she fight for a life she knew nothing about? _I don't even know my own Gods cursed name!_ She thought angrily.  
The Imperials started to call them forward, first Ulfric, striding forward confidently expressionless and calm; Then Ralof, the soldier behind her, joining his leader in front of the block. When the thief's name, Lokir, was called, he backed away from the soldiers, bumping into the Khajiit.  
"No! I'm not a rebel, you can't kill me!" he pleaded, a tall Imperial soldier moved to grab Lokir with a grin, but the thief shook off the legionnaire and bolted past the towers. The officer reacted, quickly raising her voice.  
"Archers!"  
It was a command more than anything else. A legionnaire quickly drew a bow, notched an arrow, and smoothly drew the string. The Khajiit watched as the soldier closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Upon opening them he released his bow and the arrow leaped from his bow, creating a dull streak as it flew through the air. A dull crunch and a sharp cry pierced the air as the arrow connected with the running thief, the arrow slamming into the centre of his back. As though his bone had evaporated Lokir crumpled. The Khajiit's ears tried to flatten themselves onto her skull as she heard the last breath rattle out of the thief's throat; sometimes sharp hearing was not much of a boon.  
Pushing down the desire to run, the Khajiit waited for her name to be called, "it had better not be a stupid name" she grumbled under her breath.  
The Legionnaire with the list glanced up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion and he checked the list again.  
"You're not on the list" he said, curiosity edging into his voice, "who are you?"  
The Khajiit opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged except the sharp click of her teeth as her jaw snapped shut, she did not know the answer, and neither did the legion.  
"You're a long way from Elsweyr" he continued, "did you come with one of the merchant caravans?" as simple as the question was, the Khajiit once again found it unanswerable. The legionnaire accepted the shrug as answer enough. He turned to the officer next to him, her face nearly as hard and expressionless as the steel protecting her, "what do we do with her? She's not on the list."  
"Take her to the block" she said bluntly  
"As you wish" he turned back to the Khajiit, his eyes filled with sorrow, "I'll see that your remains are delivered to Elsweyr" he said quietly, gesturing for her to join the other prisoners.  
The Khajiit's thoughts raced, who was she? Why was she here? What was her name? shoulders slumped as she slowly moved to join the others; an unfamiliar man in armour similar to Ralof's was bent over the block, sneering at his executioner.

"My Gods are smiling down at me Imperial, can you say the same?" The priest finished her prayer as the wicked axe descended, the sickeningly wet sound of the axe passing through his neck seemed to echo to the Khajiit's finely tuned ears, sharp scent of blood sprang into the air and sink into everything. She fought down the urge to vomit as the man's severed fell into the waiting basket, the blood, now only seeping from his body instead of spurting, slowly pooled around the block. The executioner shoved the body roughly with his foot, a grin painted his face as he revelled in his work.  
"The Cat next!" the officer who sentenced her shouted, pushing her forward. The Khajiit stumbled, caught by surprise, and toppled forward, her shoulder crashing into the cobble. Pushing herself to her knees she saw that she had landed in the dead man's blood, it soaked into her fur, making her pattern of dark grey and white look black and red. Faintly she heard a sound echoing across the mountain tops, curiosity flickered in the back of her mind, but was quickly forgotten

The executioner grabbed her roughly by her neck and hauled her onto the block, forcibly bending her over it and stretching her neck across the block. In this position her face was push against the previous man's head, the Khajiit felt bile rising and hope it would be over soon. The sound echoed again, this time closer, much closer. From the corner of her eye the Khajiit saw a black shape drifting across the sky on tattered wings, she turned to get a better look and she saw her executioner raise his axe, _so this is it_ she thought, she closed her eyes and waited for the descent. In the darkness behind her eyes, a whisper of a name flickered in her mind, _Ariin_. The Khajiit woman named Ariin would die with a slight smile.

The ground shook as though a great weight had slammed into the head of a drum. The great black dragon crouched on a tower, peering down at the men below, its shining scales dark as pitch, covered its entire body, and created hundreds of small spikes down its back and chest; its belly looked like a broad stretch of obsidian. For a single moment nothing moved, the dragon simply looked down, its horned angular head cocked to the side, like a bird looking at a particularly interesting worm.

"hmmmm, such a pathetic species" he said, it was clearly masculine, coiling its neck around Ariin. Dark spikes brushed her shoulders, as he chuckled, he studied her, taking her in from head to toe. "Its a wonder you're not still cowering under the Dovah's wing", the dragon's deep voice seemed to echo in her ears, "but do not worry", the dragon's head reared up "after the coming storm, it will hardly matter." Ariin watched as the dark maw opened, and flames scoured her from the world.


End file.
